


Absit Omen

by countto17



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: M/M, antisocial librarian, ralph has ptsd lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countto17/pseuds/countto17
Summary: Ralph, of course, never recovered.((Ralph and Jack meet roughly 12 years later))





	Absit Omen

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for English and only edited like 3 things lol. Not very shippy, but enough for my friends to draw hearts on it whilst peer editing. Thanks guys.
> 
> I appreciate kudos and comments! I'm up for criticism of any kind. This is one of the first narratives I've written in the past 5 years. Let me know if I should continue this.

The boys, of course, didn't fly again. None of them would ever again be able to enjoy the beach, or the sun, or to camp out under the stars. When they were taken off the island, the navy personnel had tried to question them. They had told them as little as possible. The men eventually let it slide; there was a war on. Eventually, they all made it back to their homes. The little’uns would never fully comprehend the horror but were left with a darkness bubbling in the back of their skulls, waiting to pounce. The big’uns would continue moving forward. They had to, or it would follow them. No blame could be pushed onto any one of the boys. Most forgave themselves and moved on. Most got on with an education, bought a house, and settled down with a family. Ralph, of course, never recovered. He sat in the library, behind the circulation desk, reading. The desk was littered with coffee rings and stained mugs. He worked a 12 hour day, and he loved it. Ralph could devour books at an almost alarming rate. He was always reading when he couldn’t be playing records. He was starting to lose his hearing from listening to music so constantly and so loud. He remembered when he was a teenager:

_“Ralph! Turn that down! You’ve hardly studied.”_

_He sat with his head on his table, ear pressed against the record player. “I’ll do it in a minute,” he mumbled, voice dissolved by the sound of guitar. He reluctantly craned his neck just enough to see his bookshelf. His history textbook was red. He couldn’t stand the color. The record whined the voice of the Everly Brothers:_

 

_The plane was way overdue_

_So I went inside to the airline's desk and I said_

_‘Sir, I wonder why 1203 is so late’_

_He said, ‘Oh they probably took off late_

_Or they may have run into some turbulent weather and had to alter the course’_

_I went back outside and waited at the gate / And I watched the beacon light from the control tower_

_As it whipped through the dark ebony skies as if it were searching for…”_

 

_His eyes widening, he held back a gag, and turned the record player off. He pulled the book from the shelf. He really needed to study. He opened it to a pile of bodies, a woman triumphantly holding a flag above them. He covered it with his hand, feeling lightheaded. He took a deep breath. He began to read: “The French Revolution occurred after the…”_

When he didn’t occupy himself, he remembered the smell of fire. He was constantly doing something, yet he hardly spoke. He never played sports in secondary school. He didn’t like to be chased. He floated through his education with few A’s and fewer friends. By the time he turned eighteen, the draft was no longer instated. It looked as if America was winning the war, and England slowly slumped away from the machine fire, it’s economy shaking. At university he kept to himself. He read, played records, did his schoolwork, and went to sleep. He failed, mostly. At the sleeping, that is. He decided he didn’t have any aspirations large enough for more than a bachelor’s degree. He settled down in an apartment just up the street from what might have been the smallest library in Manchester. He got the job there and hadn’t needed anything else the past three years. He sat, hunched over his novel. A sudden slam jolted him.

“These have just been returned. Put them back for me, will you?” the woman said, leaving the stack of books on the desk. Ralph nodded without looking up and continued reading. “What was that?” she asked, a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “I said yeah, I’ve got it,” Ralph mumbled, drawing himself up from the seat. The pile was larger than they usually got back in one day, but it was still manageable. He set to stamping out the names on the cards in the front pockets: three issues of comics, returned by a boy named Lucas; another installment of Sherlock Holmes, returned by a man who had only checked it out the day before; six World War II books, obviously returned by students at the end of some unit. The last book he didn’t remember checking out for anyone, and he worked six days a week. It was a small, beaten up music theory book. He thought they would have sold those at the music shop down the street. He opened the cover and slid out the card. Only two rows had been filled out with names and dates. The first had been over twelve years ago, and the most recent reader was listed under it. Ralph’s heart seemed to stop. The card read in black ink: _Jack Merridew. Checked out: February 18; Returned March 7._

He stood there, clutching the card. He read it over and over again. _Jack Merridew was here today._ He thought he might faint. __Surely, there had to be another Jack Merridew in England?_   _Ralph knew it couldn’t be him. He slowly slid the card back into the slot and set to returning the books to the shelves. He crept up the stairs to the nonfiction section. __The textbooks are all in this section, so I’m sure music books must be over-__ he heard a floorboard creak to his left. __It’s just another high schooler probably wondering if we have the abridged version of that one book again. I bet it’s nothing. I bet it’s no one._ _ He spared a glance up. There was a man with red hair down the aisle, browsing the top shelf. The man slowly turned his head towards Ralph _. Oh my god is it really him It’s really him I’m gonna die._ They met each other’s eyes and stood there for a moment. The room around them seemed to hold it’s breath. __I’m going to die I'm really gonna fucking die.__  Jack slid the book he was holding back into place. _He’s going to kill me._ Ralph suddenly felt like he could smell wood burning again. Jack took a step forward. _He’s going to kill me_. Jack continued toward him. Ralph was frozen. Jack was hardly two feet from him now. _Oh god he’s really gonna kill me, and it's all gonna burn down like before._ He felt his heart pounding behind his eyes. Jack stretched his arms forward. _He’s going to strangle me I know it._ But his arms did not reach for his throat. Jack’s arms wrapped around Ralph in a hug. They stood there for a moment, Ralph’s arms still dead at his side. Jack pulled away, but held Ralph at arms length as if to look at him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no noise came out. Ralph was dumbfounded.

“Ralph,” started Jack, in a strangely soft voice, “I wanted to say...well, I’ve thought about what I would say to you, and I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry.” Ralph thought being stabbed in between the textbook and biography sections might have been less of a shock. _Jack Merridew can’t apologize for anything._

“I don’t think...I don’t think I can forgive you,” Ralph decided.

“Well, I suppose that’s alright. I wouldn’t either.” He let go of Ralph’s arms and they stood there for a minute. The last time they saw each other they were covered in dirt and blood. They were older now, but they never really had a chance to be young anyways. Jack turned away. He seemed to pause for a moment, pondering something. The floorboards creaked as he walked down the stairs. Ralph heard the bell over the door ding as he left.


End file.
